


don't wait too long to come home

by vlieger



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>road trip fic!</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't wait too long to come home

Roger is fully aware that Rafa knows, pretty much, his entire schedule. Which is why he's at home when Rafa calls and says, sounding pathetic, "Roger, I'm injured again."

Roger sits up. He'd been half asleep, lolling warm and comfortable on the couch. "What? How? Are you alright?"

Rafa sighs. "I'm _bored_."

"You're," says Roger. "Right, of course."

"Roger," says Rafa. 

Roger knows that tone. "No," he says.

" _Roger_ ," says Rafa again. 

"I hate you," says Roger, flicking off the TV. 

 

Roger folds his arms and glares when Rafa answers his door in Madrid. "First of all," he says, "I can't believe you made me come all the way here just because you're _bored_. Secondly, I don't know why you did, because all the things you like to do when you're bored involve too much movement and danger, and you're injured."

Rafa grins, wide and bright. "You come here just to yell at me? Is not nice. I'm injured." The smile turns into a pout and then back into a smile again, quick as lightning. 

"I _know_ ," says Roger, glaring some more. He can feel his lips twitching, giving him away. 

Rafa laughs. "No dangerous things, this time." He pushes Roger away from the door and steps outside after him, hauling a duffel bag onto his shoulder. 

"What-- "

"Road trip," says Rafa happily. "We go, yes, like in movies."

"You," says Roger, staring. "But-- "

"Roger." Rafa frowns, tilting his head. "Please." He heads down to join Roger on the path, limping a little. 

"Ugh," says Roger, pulling the bag from Rafa and turning his back. "I _told_ you. No carrying heavy things. And you're sitting in the back seat, with your leg up."

"Okay," says Rafa, laughing to himself and following Roger to the car. 

 

Rafa starts complaining twenty minutes into the trip. "Is no good back here," he says, tipping his head back against the window and peering at Roger through the gap in the seats. 

Roger clicks his tongue, eyes on the road. "If you want to go on a road trip when you're injured, then you stay in the back seat," he says. And smiles, squinting at the asphalt. 

"We go on road trip and I see no road," says Rafa grumpily. 

Roger laughs. 

 

It's maybe an hour and a half into the trip when Rafa shuffles around on the back seat and asks, "Where you driving?"

Roger shrugs. "I thought maybe Segovia. I want to see the castle. And the bridge."

"Okay," says Rafa easily. 

 

It's nightfall when they reach Segovia, the sun almost gone, a fading orange behind the dark silhouetted city. Roger drives them straight to a hotel, something small and nondescript, while Rafa sits up and leans forward between the driver and passenger seats, an elbow balanced on the shoulder of each, and alternates craning his neck to see everything he can through the windshield and complaining some more to Roger. "Is not late," he says, shifting his legs so he can lean forward even further, wedged between the seats. "We still can go sightsee."

"No," says Roger. 

"But-- "

"No," Roger repeats, pulling the car to a halt and turning to look at Rafa. "You'll probably break your neck trying to find your way around in the dark."

"But-- "

"We can go," says Roger loudly, "For a walk to find some dinner, so you can stretch your leg."

Rafa shuts up and bites down on his lip. "Fine," he says finally, climbing out of the car. "I want big dinner. And we go supermarket, find food for driving."

 

"Rafa," hisses Roger when Rafa crashes into a supermarket shelf for the fifth time, riding the shopping cart. "You'll knock one of those over soon, and then we'll get kicked out, and then you won't have any food to eat in the car."

Rafa sighs, leaning down to fold his elbows over the handle and rest his chin on them. He's half-filled the cart already, piles of crisps and biscuits and cans of soda. Roger shakes his head and wanders off to find something a little more healthy, maybe some fruit, and a few bottles of water. 

"You need some of this," he says when Rafa catches up, gliding along on the cart, and waves an apple in his face. 

Rafa grimaces. "Is holiday," he says, gesturing to the piles of junk food he's collected. 

Roger shakes his head. " _You_ have to go back and play more tennis," he says, smug. " _I'm_ retired. Which means." He dumps the bag of apples into the cart. "These are for you, and I'll eat the junk food."

Rafa shrugs, running a finger along the edge of the cart. "Maybe I retire too," he says. 

"You," says Roger, glancing at him sharply. "Really?"

Rafa shrugs again. "Maybe," he says. "I don't know. My knee."

Roger nods slowly. "Yeah," he says.

Rafa's smile when it comes is a little slower than usual, a little sadder, a little more uncertain.

 

He's laughing again when they’re back in the hotel, crowding onto Roger's bed because it's got a better view of the TV, slinging an ankle across Roger's and leaning into his side. 

"Is boring," he says after about half an hour, yawning into Roger's shoulder. 

"Hmm," says Roger, jolting a little. "Bed time, I think." He flicks off the TV and throws the remote over the side of the bed, reaching for the bedside light. 

Rafa yawns again, wriggling under the covers and burrowing his head into the pillow. 

"Rafa," says Roger. 

"Shut up," mumbles Rafa, curling an arm around Roger's waist and pulling him down. 

 

Roger wakes with a start at-- three in the morning, his watch says-- flailing and wondering what's woken him. Then he notices that he's alone in the bed, and, "Oh," he says, peering over the side with one hand fisted against his eye. "Oh, shit, Rafa, are you okay?"

Rafa lies back on the floor, giggling at the ceiling. He waves a hand. "Fine," he chokes. 

"Are you sure?" Roger slides down to join him on the carpet. "Your knee, is it-- "

"Fine," says Rafa again, smiling at him. 

"Okay," says Roger. "Maybe you should sleep in your bed now."

Rafa shakes his head, sitting up and hauling himself back into Roger's bed. "Is warm," he says.

Roger sighs. "I'll take the other bed, then."

Rafa shakes his head and curls his hand around Roger's elbow. "Is okay," he mumbles, tightening his fingers until Roger climbs back in beside him. He wraps his arm around Roger's waist again and presses up against him. "Like this, si? No one falls out." He smiles against Roger’s collarbone and Roger sighs, fits his arm around Rafa's shoulders.

 

Rafa picks their next stop, leaning over the fold-out map they bought between sightseeing in Segovia, chin propped in his hands. "Salamanca," he says decidedly, prodding at the spot on the map. "La ciudad dorada," he adds, tilting his head. 

Roger beams, and when Rafa glances up and catches it he smiles back, pleased. 

 

"I drive now," says Rafa when they stop for lunch about halfway to Salamanca. 

Roger frowns, considering. "Only a little," he says finally. 

"Then I go to back seat again, stretching my leg, I know." Rafa rolls his eyes. 

"Does it still hurt?" asks Roger, raising an eyebrow. 

Rafa pauses. Then, "Little bit," he says guiltily, looking down at the table. 

Roger laughs. "Maybe driving will help." He shrugs. "Something different."

Rafa kicks him.

 

They find a restaurant for an early dinner in the Plaza Mayor, sliding into their seats outside just as the sun dips below the buildings, passing out of sight. Rafa's quiet, sitting across from Roger with his back to the square, frowning down at his food and pushing it around the plate with his fork, not eating much. 

"What’s wrong?" asks Roger quietly. 

Rafa shrugs and says nothing, stabbing a little more violently at his food. 

"Rafa," says Roger. 

"I don't know," says Rafa, not meeting his eyes. "Tired. Leg hurts. I don't know." He shrugs again.

Roger sighs. "Hey," he says, reaching under the table and catching Rafa's leg, pressing his fingers into the calf and tugging it onto his lap. "Keep stretching. We'll go for a walk after dinner."

Rafa's startled into a smile. "Okay," he says. "Sorry."

Roger shakes his head, drumming his fingers against Rafa's jeans and looking over Rafa's shoulder at where the lights are coming on around the plaza. Rafa follows his gaze and turns his head, eyes widening at the sight, dazzling gold all around them, shimmering against the sky's dark ink. 

"Oh," he breathes. 

When he turns back his face is softer, more relaxed, eyes bright. He drops his leg from Roger's lap but leaves their calves pressed together, warm and solid, and they finish their meal in comfortable silence. 

 

"Trujillo," says Roger, palming out the folds of the map spread across his knees. 

Rafa raises an eyebrow. His hair is obscuring the southwest corner of Spain, fanning out from where his head is resting against Roger's thigh. The only room available for two at the hotel they'd chosen, small and run-down, had been a double. Roger's spent the last ten minutes poring over the map while Rafa's commandeered the remote and spread what appears to be the entire assortment of snacks they'd bought across the bed. 

"It sounds nice," says Roger, shrugging. 

Rafa shifts up the bed to press his chin into Roger's shoulder. "Not too far," he says, reaching over to trace the path from Salamanca to Trujillo with his finger. 

"No," agrees Roger. He turns his head slightly. "How's your knee?"

"Same," says Rafa, pressing his cheek to Roger's neck. "Hurts."

Roger looks down at where Rafa's got a hand cupped instinctively over his knee. "You should get under the covers," he says. "I'll turn the heating up."

 

Trujillo is full of churches. They wander around slowly in the warm afternoon sun, stopping often for coffee, or a snack, or once a tiny antique store that catches Roger's eye. He doesn't buy anything but he does pull out his camera once they're outside again, snapping photos of old buildings and little colourful shops; soft, blurred lines and hazy light. 

And Rafa, leaning back against the worn stones of St Martin's, taking the weight off his injured knee and squinting at Roger, grinning. 

 

Rafa directs them to a beach not far from Cadiz next, calling the occasional direction from his place on the back seat. "Is nicer, yes?" he says when Roger kills the engine and leans back in his seat, stretching. 

It is. It's beautiful, all pools of light and water, warm and quiet. "No hotels," says Roger despite this, casting a doubtful eye around them. 

"We staying still," says Rafa. "Just one night, is no problem."

Roger sighs. "I don't want you to-- " He stops, worrying at his lip. "Your knee," he finishes finally, shaking his head. 

Rafa looks at him for a heartbeat, silent. Then, "We go swimming," he says, smiling and climbing out of the car. 

 

The water is perfect. Rafa splashes in til he's waist-deep and then stops, turning to grin at Roger and tilt his head, eyes wide. Roger, standing in the shallows, rolls his eyes and follows him in. 

"Is good," says Rafa, jumping a little in time with the waves. "For my knee, is good."

"I'm glad," says Roger. "Rafa, I'm sorry, I didn't-- "

"Race!" shouts Rafa, launching himself forward over the crest of a wave. 

Roger blinks and jumps after him. He gets there first, sinking back into the wet sand and the trickle of water washing in and pulling back, washing in and pulling back, arms spread. Rafa's not too far behind, and he rolls onto his back beside Roger, eyes closed, wrists brushing. 

"Is okay," he says. 

Roger turns his head to look at him. Rafa's eyes are still closed, face turned placidly towards the sky. "Thanks," he says quietly. He's not sure Rafa hears over the noise of the ocean, so Roger presses a knuckle to the pulse in his wrist, just in case. 

 

Roger sleeps stretched awkwardly along the passenger seat, tilted back but not far enough that Rafa can't move his legs. They're woken at sunrise by the glaring light and uncomfortable aches in their necks, and Roger sits up and says, "I think we need another swim, before we go."

Rafa nods, smiling, and follows him out to chase the early-morning tides. 

 

"Is little better today," he says after, leaning back on his elbows in the soft, dry sand a little further up the beach and looking down at his knee. 

Roger looks, too, and reaches out to press his thumb against the thin white scars circling the bone. "That's good," he says. 

 

Roger has trouble remembering, sometimes, that Rafa's not still the kid he was when they first met. If he looks closely now he can see the lines, faint but still there, cutting into the skin around his eyes, little paper-thin markers of age. His knees give him away too, worn-down bone and tired, aching muscle, and there's something in his expression, not all the time but often enough, older and harder. It's a shock, whenever he notices these things, because in so many ways Rafa still is that kid. The smile, the easy, unaffected manner, the way he talks to Roger with that same mix of teasing, affection and ever-so-slight awe. 

 

"Granada," says Roger, nodding at the map he's spread across the steering-wheel. "I want to see the Alhambra." 

 

"Is pretty," yawns Rafa later that night, crawling into his bed and watching Roger scroll through the hundreds of photos he'd taken. 

"It's incredible," says Roger distractedly, leaning in to peer more closely at one of the pictures.

Rafa nods through another yawn. "You not as boring as I think."

Roger gropes around for a pillow and hurls it in Rafa's direction, eyes still on the camera. "Shut up. You asked me to come with you." 

"I know," says Rafa. 

 

It's dark when Roger wakes, the dip of the mattress from Rafa's weight jerking his eyes, however unwilling, open. He makes a vague questioning noise and rolls over on autopilot to make room for Rafa. 

"Can't sleep," explains Rafa, shuffling closer. 

"Okay," mumbles Roger, slipping an arm about his waist. 

There's a silence. Roger's mostly asleep again when Rafa shifts restlessly and says, "No, I lie."

"Hmm," says Roger. He's warm and tired and barely awake. "What?"

Rafa kisses him. It's a proper half-asleep kiss, his lips sliding wet and uncoordinated over Roger's cheek until he finds his mouth, and then it's wetter still and warmer, soft and lulled and open-mouthed.

"Oh," says Roger, when Rafa pulls away. Then he tightens his hand where it's folded over Rafa’s hip and leans in again, because he’s still so warm and tired and barely awake, and that was, well. 

"Okay," whispers Rafa, when they break apart again. "Okay, okay, okay." He keeps on saying it and Roger falls asleep to the soft repeated sounds, over and over until it turns into Rafa's quiet, even breaths, asleep too with his head on Roger's pillow. 

 

He starts into wakefulness the next morning when Rafa sinks onto his bed, fully clothed. Roger blinks, rubbing at his eyes. "Where have you been?" he mumbles through a yawn. 

Rafa looks down at his hands. "I use the internet downstairs. Finding flights home to Mallorca."

"Oh," says Roger. He sits up, rubbing unconsciously at his lips where, oh God. "You're not going back to Madrid?"

Rafa shakes his head. "Not yet," he says. 

"Okay," says Roger. "Well, I guess I could go down and look, too, I'm sure I can find something back to-- "

"Roger," says Rafa. And stops. 

"Yeah," says Roger. 

Rafa bites down on his lip, still looking at his hands, and says, "Maybe you come to Mallorca, si? Stay for a while."

"Oh," says Roger. Rafa's looking at him now, neck twisted and chin tucked into his shoulder, smiling small and hopeful. Something catches in Roger's throat. He coughs to clear it and says, blinking, "Yeah, I. Okay."


End file.
